


Restless

by lightsparkwatchboom



Series: Drabble Prompts [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham Asylum (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsparkwatchboom/pseuds/lightsparkwatchboom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce has trouble sleeping some times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restless

Push ups. Sits ups. Chin ups. A mile on the track: six minutes flat. Push ups. Sit ups. Chin ups.

Bruce was tired. He was tired of being awake, he was tired of the constant flow of adrenalin that poisoned his blood. It was getting to the point where he could feel his heart beat even at rest. His hands shook, his legs trembled. He got up. 

Push ups. Sit ups. Chin ups. A mile on the track: five minutes, forty-seven seconds. Dripping in his own sweat, Bruce plunged into the pool and swam 50 meters, 100, 150, 200. It wasn’t enough. He hauled himself out of the deep end and went straight back to the gym.

_Get some sleep, Commissioner. You look tired._

Those were his words. That was what Bruce had said two night ago, when he had finally cleaned up the Joker’s latest scheme in taking over Arkham Asylum. And now — right hook, left knee, rapid fire thrusts. Bruce could break a jaw, rupture a lung, and cause six different kinds of internal bleeding in less than a minute. 

The punching bag wasn’t doing it. He couldn’t move fast enough.

He went back to the track.

Bruce didn’t often listen to music. Dick liked music a lot, he used to listen to it in the Batcave back when he was Robin. Bruce only allowed it if he wore headphones and kept it quiet. But that didn’t mean Bruce was unaware, nor that he did not enjoy music altogether. He knew  _of_  popular music, and he had his own playlist on six different devices. It was just a matter of being in the mood.

Hit feet pounded on the rubber. His knees jolted with every step. His heart beat, his lungs pumped. And blaring in his ears louder than he ever let Dick get away was Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125. He ran through the whole song. And the next one. And the next one. His lungs  _burned_ , his sides were ready to split. He could feel the tear in left left foot rip apart. He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop,  _he couldn’t stop_ —

Bruce stumbled over his own feet as he came to a grinding halt. There was nothing he could do to breath fast enough, there was no way his muscles were going to get the oxygen they needed in time. Three shots of Fear venom, an overdose of TITAN formula. He had barely survived. He had barely been strong enough.

Bruce tried and failed to take another step. He collapsed against the railing of the track, sweat so pervasive it might as well have been a second skin. The blood was warm and sticky under his foot. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

But he was tired now. Maybe he would just fall over here. Maybe he would just fall asleep in a pool of his own sweat and blood, and maybe that would finally be enough.

Bruce groaned and pushed himself to his feet.


End file.
